Judith still couldn’t believe Dade was serious. “You
are?”
“I sure am,” he responded. “That little lady has
some mighty swell tales to tell. I like her style.” With
a salute, Dade ambled along after the rest of the party.
The limos had barely pulled away when Judith
heard a knock at the back door. Maybe it was Renie,
326
Mary Daheim
though she rarely got up until ten o’clock, and even
then, it took her another hour to become fully conscious.
It wasn’t her cousin who’d come to call. It was an
even more unlikely person to show up so early in the
day.
“Goodness!” Vivian Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve had
more excitement, I see. Those sirens woke me up. I
only managed to get dressed about five minutes ago,
and then I saw the limos in the cul-de-sac. What’s
going on now?”
“One of the guests had an accident,” Judith replied,
leading Herself into the kitchen. “A small fire upstairs.
She’ll be okay, I think. Would you care for coffee?”
The offer came with a tug of reluctance.
Vivian, however, waved a hand. “No, but thanks
anyway. As long as I’m dressed”—she ran a hand over
her ensemble, which consisted of a black wool suit
with slits in the skirt, a frilly white blouse, sling-back
stiletto heels, and a perky black beret adorned with
faux pearls—“I think I’ll pop over to Norway General
to see Stone Cold Sam.”
“I hear he’s doing well,” Judith said.
“He’s doing wonderfully,” Herself declared, then
giggled behind her hand. “But I feel sooo guilty!”
“About what?”
Vivian giggled again, then made a face. “About the
heart attack. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were doing anything really outrageous.”
Judith’s mouth was agape. “You mean . . . ? Stone
Cold Sam was . . . ah . . . with you when he had the
heart attack?”
Vivian’s false eyelashes fluttered. “With me. Yes.”
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327
“Oh.” Judith gulped. “I see.”
“You’d better not!” Herself said, wagging a finger.
“Naughty of you to peek!” She giggled some more.
“That’s why I feel guilty. I went to see him last night,
and I was so upset I ended up on the wrong floor. I almost panicked when the room I thought was his turned
out to be empty. I was afraid he’d passed away. I practically ran all the way to the elevator. I thought he was
in 706, but it was 906. Silly me.”
An alarm bell went off in Judith’s brain. She stared
at Herself until the other woman stared back with a
puzzled expression.
“What’s wrong, Judith?” Vivian inquired. “You look
like you don’t feel well. I’ve noticed that you haven’t
really looked very good since your surgery. Did it age
you terribly?”
Judith was accustomed to Herself’s barbs, but on
this occasion, they were the least of her worries. “No,”
she said tersely. “I’m just tired. It’s been a difficult
weekend.”
“So it seems.” Vivian reached into her cobra-skin
handbag to retrieve a pair of black kid gloves. “I must
be off. I’ll give Sam your best. By the way, I hope that
nothing was badly burned. Except for those handsome
firefighters on the roof, everything looks fine from outside.”
“It’s not too bad,” Judith said, hoping the statement
might be true.
“Good,” Herself responded. “Toodles.” She departed through the front door on a wave of decadence
and a whiff of Chanel No. 5.
For at least a full minute, Judith stood in the hallway, thinking hard. She had been certain that the per- 328
Mary Daheim
son wearing high heels at Norway General was Winifred,
coming to see Angela. She had ruled out Eugenia, who
always wore sensible shoes, and Ellie, who preferred
sandals and sneakers. The idea that Winifred had wanted
to ensure Angela’s silence concerning the source of
Bruno’s cocaine addiction was out the window.
She considered going upstairs to see what was happening on the guest floor. But she didn’t really want to
know. Besides, she was leery of overdoing it with her
hip. The first order of business was almost as painful
as the fire itself: She had to call Ingrid Heffelman to
change the current set of reservations.
With a heavy sigh, Judith looked at the calendar on
the wall above the computer. She hadn’t flipped the
page to November. Saying good-bye to Sculptor’s Stu-
dio, she stared at the new painting. It was Grant
Wood’s American Gothic. Born 1892 in Anamosa,
Iowa, the tag line read, he taught in the Cedar Rapids
public schools and later was an artist in residence at
the University of Iowa. Wood was strongly influenced
by German and Flemish painters of the . . .
Judith’s brain was going into overdrive, but was
short-circuited by the voice of Battalion Chief
Ramirez, who was calling from the entry hall.
“Everything’s under control,” he said, pulling off his
heavy gloves. “We’ll come by later today to check
things out and see what help we can offer once your
husband has finished talking to your insurance agent.”
Judith thanked the firefighter, then waited on the
porch until the hoses were rolled up and the fire truck
drove away. A small white sedan was pulled up to the
curb by the Rankerses’ driveway. Something about the
vehicle chafed at her memory, but she shrugged it
SILVER SCREAM
329
away. Small white cars were as common as the autumn
fog. My brain’s in a fog, she thought. Rarely had she
felt so low in her mind.
As the firefighters disappeared out of the cul-de-sac,
Judith heard a sound just off the porch on the other side
of the Weigela bush. Walking down the steps, she
turned the corner and peered through the fog.
A gray-clad figure appeared like a wraith out of the
mists. Judith stood very still, her heart in her mouth.
Then, as the figure came closer, recognition dawned.
“Mrs. Izard!” Judith exclaimed. “What are you
doing here?”
Meg Izard clutched at her imitation-leather purse
with one hand and held the felt picture-frame hat in
place with the other. “Just passing by on our way out
of town,” she said, her usually cold gaze showing a
spark of life. “I didn’t think anybody was home. Walt
and I saw somebody leave the house. We thought it
was you. What’s going on with the firemen?”
“A small fire,” Judith replied. “Guests are sometimes heedless.”
“I’ll bet,” Meg said, looking away toward the
Weigela.
Judith retreated to the bottom of the porch steps.
“Despite the problems we had with your reservation,
do you plan on staying at Hillside Manor when you
visit again?”
“We’ll see about that,” Meg replied with a scowl.
“The weather here’s dismal.”
“September is lovely,” Judith said. “So is early October.”
“September’s no good,” Meg said, adjusting the